


you break me down, you build me up,

by MetaAllu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depressed Gabriel, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, no happy ending, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaAllu/pseuds/MetaAllu
Summary: “You were late this morning,” says Jack fucking Morrison.  They’re friends.  Some would say brothers.  Gabriel grinds his teeth together and jerks away from the hand on his shoulder.“Sorry, sir,” he says, with too much bite to mean it as Jack’s hand falls limp at his side.  Silence yawns between them as Jack sets down his tray and takes his seat directly next to Gabriel, acting as if nothing is wrong.Nothing is wrong.  That’s what they’re both busy telling themselves.





	you break me down, you build me up,

**Author's Note:**

> I was choking in the crowd  
> Building my rain up in the cloud  
> Falling like ashes to the ground  
> Hoping my feelings, they would drown  
> But they never did, ever lived, ebbing and flowing  
> Inhibited, limited  
> Till it broke open and rained down  
> You rained down, like...
> 
>  
> 
> \- Believer, Imagine Dragons

It’s a weird thing, a gut full of shame. Gabriel isn’t typically the kind of man who feels that way. He fights shamelessly, he argues with the team in his quiet growl shamelessly, he _loves_ shamelessly. Or he did. He thought he did. He thought—

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s all talk and no walk. _Piece of shit,_ he thinks to himself as he stares into the mirror. His hands curl around the jutting rim of his dresser. He’s staring at himself, the morning stubble he’ll shave away, the tired look in his eyes that he’ll weaponize—make another reason for people to flinch away from him—the extra fuzz around his ears that he’ll shave away a few mornings from now.

A sick feeling roils in his stomach, the weight of his heart dropping down into it. He can do nothing but admit to himself that he will be skipping breakfast. Again. How many days now? No one’s noticed. Maybe Ana, but she won’t say anything. She knows better than to push him. She could. Easily. She has nothing to fear from him, infinitely more level-headed and strategic, armed with age and experience and goddamn precision.

Tiredly, he steps away from the mirror and wanders into the bathroom to clean himself up before his day starts. If he takes a little longer than necessary, lingers by the bathroom mirror, that’s between him and his reflection.

If he picks at his lunch, stares out one of the mess’ small windows into the blinding afternoon light of summer, that’s between him and the ache. The fucked up muscle in his shoulder starts to ache the way it does when he gets too stressed. He reaches the hand not holding his fork up to press into the muscles only to have his hand brushed away, replaced with one just slightly broader than his own (a bragging point, apparently).

“You were late this morning,” says Jack fucking Morrison. They’re friends. Some would say brothers. Gabriel grinds his teeth together and jerks away from the hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, with too much bite to mean it as Jack’s hand falls limp at his side. Silence yawns between them as Jack sets down his tray and takes his seat directly next to Gabriel, acting as if nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong. That’s what they’re both busy telling themselves.

Gabriel’s teeth tear into the overly rubbery salibury steak on his plate while Jack busies himself pushing his fork through his bagged mashed potatoes over and over, moving them around his plate until they’re wet with gravy like thick soup.

The words that Gabriel wants to say are stuck to the roof of his mouth, messy and out of order, tangled up with the rage. He wants to slam Jack down onto the cement floor beneath their boots and beat him til he’s choking on his own blood, gurgling and gasping around whatever shit he feels like spewing.

Instead, he sits. In silence. Jack sits in silence. His fork scrapes the bottom of his plate and Gabriel’s hand tightens around his own fork. The meal drags on, but once Gabriel’s done eating, he doesn’t wait, doesn’t even say anything, just gets up and tosses out his trash and then leaves. The spot where Jack’s hand was feels like a sunburn.

They always say not to fall in love your best friend. It’s asking for heartbreak; but Gabriel loves and hates his best friend and there is no Buzzfeed article for that sick feeling that gathers when he’s alone with his thoughts. Rather than let himself be tortured by the turmoil of it all, he opts to go to the gym and pummel a bag.

It’s quiet, near-empty, most others preferring to save their work outs for early morning or late evening.

The boxing gloves, once a weight around his hands, feel natural as he slips them on, the Velcro tight around his wrists. His mouth guard clacks between his grinding teeth—a precaution in case the bag comes back at him—and he steps up, taking all his bottled feelings with him.

The first punch is sloppy, too loose, wobbling and landing pathetically without the proper torque from is hips. The bag barely jiggles in response and he shakes his head, shifting his stance and bringing his hands up, shoulders lifting.

His breath punches out of his lungs, stomach muscles going tense as he tries again. The bag sways, and as it comes back, he twists in with a straight punch of his other fist, then the other before he steps back, letting the bag swing through the air.

Squaring back up, he goes in again, this time with a jab, a hook, a jab. Jab, uppercut, jab. Jab, overhand, jab. The momentum of his body as he comes back drags his back leg up. His shin slams into the bag before he comes back down, switching sides, and goes again.

He starts to ache, sweat gathering under his arms, inside his gloves, on the back his neck and the curve of his back; but his mind empties out, centring in on the patterns he’s drilling through. His breath heaves through his lungs, slamming out with each blow, spit smattering the inside of his lips from the force of the sound.

He barely registers the door of the gym opening, ignores it, moves until he catches himself coughing.

Stepping away from the bag, he tears off his gloves and grabs his water bottle, dropping his gloves where it sat, and he walks out into the field. There’s a makeshift baseball field, little more than patches of torn up grass to indicate bases and “dugouts” that consist of old benches shoved under trees and covered with tarps.

He sits himself down on one of the benches, nestles himself under the shelter of the tarp, draping down and weighing the now-bowing tree branches. Tilting his head back, he takes greedy drinks of his water.

The wood shifts next to him. He stares up, keeps drinking, sucking the water bottle dry before finally lowering his head, hand settling on his sweat-chilled thigh.

Jack’s hand slips up the back of his sweat-drenched tank top, settling in the middle of his back. He turns his head, feels water and sweat clinging to his neck, dripping slowly beneath his neckline.

Jack’s looking at him with those fucking baby blues, wet like he’s been gut punched. Gabriel can’t decide between pushing him off or pulling him in, so he sits stock still, chest heaving, breaths coming out his mouth. Jack’s eyes flick down, obvious and hungry. He really does want to shove him off now, but instead he sets his lips into a scowl.

“Don’t,” Jack says, soft, pleading.

Gabriel can feel himself crumpling. He tries to stoke the angry feelings in his gut, tries to make himself not want it as Jack leans in towards him, but when it comes down it, it’s him kissing Jack and not the other way around.

The hand on his back slides higher, rucking his tank top up obscenely as Jack’s hot hand settles on the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. His free hand grabs a handful of hair and Jack makes a noise against his mouth like he’s dying.

The kiss drags on until Gabriel’s lungs are aching. When he pulls back, Jack looks at him, doe-eyed. Gabriel expects something stupid. Romance, love, forever. These are things that they will never have if it takes his dying breath.

“Feel like taking on something with more skills than a punching bag?” is what he says.

“Know anyone?” Gabriel answers.

Jack laughs, genuine mirth tangled with hurt, but he still gets to his feet, and then offers Gabriel a hand, pulling him to his feet.

He refills his water bottle, puts his boxing gloves back on, keeping his back turned even as he hears the click of Jack’s mouth guard case, the velcro of his gloves and head gear. He pulls on his own, pops his mouth guard back in and pulls off his shoes, then steps onto the mats of the gym.

His pulse pounds in his ears as his fists come back. Jack’s punches are cleaner, well-kept like his fucking farm boy alter ego. He pulls the wool down over the eyes of everyone around them, fucking them all over with that sweet damn smile on his face. Gabriel wants to scream, but Jack, _Jack_ , is who they chose. He knows better. He knows to keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him.

He parries, a seamless mirror to Jack’s lazy strikes. He’s not even fucking trying, pussing it, hanging back, not even close enough to so much as make Gabriel flinch away. The gloves give him extra reach, let him hang a little further back than he would in a real scuffle, and he’s taking advantage, using the additional inches to keep his body safe.

Gabriel hits harder. His first hit earns him a grunt, the second one gets Jack shifting back. He side steps, trying to gain an advantage, trying not to end up too far back. Gabriel moves with him, using the momentum to land another blow. Jack’s hand comes up to block and Gabriel goes in with the other fist. Jack knocks it aside and then slams in with his forehead. Surprised, Gabriel stumbles back, hands automatically coming up to protect himself, and Jack uses the splayed angle of his elbows to come in for a gut punch.

It’s not as hard as it could have been, but it sends the breath rushing out of Gabriel’s lungs, a pained sound squeaking out alongside.

“Keep up, Reyes,” Jack says, words slurred around his mouth guard, purposefully egging him on. He knows it, but he still snarls and surges in for more. This time Jack parries, then catches Gabriel’s wrist in his open palm and traps it down against his body. Filled with panic and instinct, Gabriel’s elbow comes down, slamming into the shoulder Jack is leaning into him.

Jack swears, that fake attitude dropping out from under him as he steps out, grabbing at his shoulder.

“You motherfucker,” he gasps and Gabriel grins at him, too sharp, completely unapologetic. “Son of a bitch, that fucking smarts.”

“Keep up, Morrison,” Gabriel answers, and his fists come back up.

Jack’s punches get harder, less forgiving. He starts taking risks. His eyes don’t leave Gabriel for a moment, focused on his body movements. They both go silent, intent on each other, parrying and punching in kind, neither gaining ground on the other for long enough to matter. Gabriel’s heart is loud in his ears, his breathing is ragged.

He notices when Jack’s eyes flick over him in concern, a noticeable shift from his concentrated intent to do harm, and he calls a time out before the other man can do so. Pulling off his headgear and gloves, he picks up his water bottle with trembling hands.

The cap of Jack’s own water bottle is the only sound besides swallowing for a solid minute, then Jack comes up behind Gabriel. His dew-wet fingers slip to Gabriel’s hip bone as his mouth comes to Gabriel’s neck, leaving gasping kisses to his skin.

“Gabriel,” Jack says right into his ear, voice dipping low to a register that’s just for him. He doesn’t answer and Jack’s hand dips down, cold fingers making Gabriel twitch before a noise comes out of him, low and almost angry as Jack’s hand brushes past his cock, two fingers sinking into his pussy.

He means to bitch, say something about the freezing ass fingers inside him, pushing insistently into his g-spot while an equally cold thumb grinds mercilessly against his hardening cock, but instead what he says is “Not here, you fucking sicko.”

Jack walks with purpose, careful not to betray anything, the commander persona slipping easily back onto his face as Gabriel walks behind him, pissed off and horny. They step into Jack’s quarters, and then Jack slams the door shut pushing Gabriel into it, hands shoving his shorts down to his shins. Gabriel kicks them off, and his boxers are soon to follow.

Jack presses his fingers back in, has Gabriel gasping against his mouth, hands fumbling for a hold. He settles for Jack’s sweat-soaked shirt, grabbing him by the hip of the fabric, going up onto the balls on his feet as Jack’s fingers push into him harder, pressing with obvious purpose. His lips trail away, going to his neck, and Gabriel barely catches him saying “God, Gabe, I have gotta get that dick in my mouth right now or I’m gonna die.”

He doesn’t even have the chance to answer before Jack’s on his knees, cock tenting obscenely in his sweats, in plain view now that Gabriel’s looking down, watching Jack wrap his mouth around his cock, which is just big enough to jut out a little when he’s hard.

“Fuck,” Jack says around a mouthful, moaning like it’s his dick getting sucked. He’s sloppy, over eager. He’s like this no matter where he puts his damn mouth.

Gabriel’s face goes hot and he drags his eyes away, remembering the last they’d fucked, Jack licking his own cum out of his over-sensitive ass, and the noise he’d made when he’d clamped his thighs around Jack’s head. It hadn’t stopped him, and 10 minutes later Jack had been fucking him sloppy, panting into his ear and begging for who the fuck knew what.

Jack’s mouth trails sloppy kisses over his thighs and when Gabriel looks down, his wide-eyed, staring up at him, pupils blown out. He bites down and Gabriel grunts, thigh jerking.

“Condom,” he says, followed swiftly by “Bed.”

Jack gets up, grabbing supplies and a condom, licking his fingers clean before he rolls the condom on. He shoves the pillows up against the wall and leans on it, pouring lube onto his hand, slicking himself up. Gabe pulls off his shirt, nipples going hard in the cool air and then crawls onto the bed, straddling Jack, thighs around his.

One of Jack’s hands goes to his thigh, and the wet one pushes back inside of him, using the spare lube to get him ready. That’s what he claims, anyway, but Gabriel knows it’s an excuse to get those greedy fingers back inside him, feel the clench when he rubs just right. Gabriel watches the way his dick jumps as Jack shoves his fingers in harder. He snarls smacking his shoulder, nails digging in a little, leaving little pink crescents on the pale, freckled skin.

“Before I’m old and dead,” he says. Jack grins up at him and presses more kisses to his skin. He’s not one to do anything at any pace but his own, but the hand on Gabriel’s hip pushes down, the other slipping out to hold his cock steady.

Something has motivated him to get on with it, and Gabriel’s not about to agonize over what it is because the tip of Jack’s dick is pressing into him, the head slipping past that first ridge of pleasure inside of him. He screws his eyes shut and make a tiny noise, unable to stop himself. Jack pauses, and Gabriel could seriously _hit him_ except that he’s holding Gabriel’s hips in place, and his hips dip down and then push back up, the head slipping almost all the way out before pressing back in. He repeats the motion, speeding up, until Gabriel makes a low, raspy sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

Jack’s hands push him down, his thrusts getting rougher the more of Gabriel that envelops him.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps out. One his hand slides down for a handful of ass, pulling a low sound out of Gabriel’s throat. Jack’s fingertips tease the rim of his hole, hips still working, the bed creaking as he pushes his hips into the mattress with each rough thrust. Gabriel won’t let him go all gentle and romantic. The most Jack gets is whatever he can slip into the filth that seems to spew out of him non-stop the second an extra drop of blood drips into his cock.

“Goddamn. I could have you all night, use both holes raw, and it still wouldn’t be enough,” Jack babbles, unbothered by Gabriel’s relative silence other than his hitched moans and low grunts, punctuated by the occasional breathless _Fuck_. “Your moans are so fucking hot. Love when you dig your nails into me. Been thinking about the taste of your dick all day.”

Gabriel squeezes his thighs together, hot embarrassment going through him. He squeezes down, hoping to shut Jack up at least momentarily. It does the trick. A little too well.

Jack growls and pushes Gabriel down, hoisting one of Gabe’s thighs up over his shoulder, pausing briefly to kiss it before turning his attention back to his task, driving into Gabriel even harder than before, eyes roving over him. He licks his lips, a distracting and somehow obscene gesture despite the fact they’re literally fucking, and his eyes drink in the fresh sweat, Gabriel’s open, gasping mouth, the faint scars that dance over his body, light streaks amongst the glistening brown skin.

He leans down, and the stretch makes Gabriel’s hamstring burn, but then Jack is _licking_ sweat off his skin, and Gabriel swears he’s going to combust then and there. He makes a noise and Jack looks up at him, eyes dark and blown wide. He runs his tongue slowly over Gabriel’s skin shifting the leg over his shoulder to around his waist and then asks, gaze predatory and eager, “You wanna cum?”

Gabriel nods sharply. Jack lets out a slow sigh, almost reverent before he pulls back and starts pounding in earnest instead of the shallow, eager rocks from before. He has Gabriel fisting at the sheets in minutes, raspy sounds slipping out of him with each brutal thrust. One of Gabriel’s hand fumbles between his legs to touch his cock, and he tries not to think too hard about the growl of approval and want that gets from Jack.

Instead, he lets his attention drift to the feeling, the hot tug in his belly and thighs, his orgasm practically torn out of him along with the raspy series of moans that comes with it. Jack gets shallow again, fucking him through his orgasm even as he starts to soften until Gabriel actually has to shove him off, shaking with aftershocks.

He lets himself lie on the bed, lets the sounds of Jack tossing out the condom and washing up distract him from his thoughts just a little bit longer. Jack comes back with water and a cool wash cloth, running it over his skin while making him drink, a moment Gabriel allows because of exhaustion before slowly laying down, rolling on his side. The light is turned out, and Jack slips into bed next to him. He makes no attempt to put an arm around him, knowing better than that.

Gabriel waits until Jack’s breathing evens out, either asleep or faking it, before he gets up and gets dressed. He stops by the gym to get his things, then goes back to his own room, throws his nasty workout gear in the hamper and steps into the bathroom. He takes a brief glance in the mirror, feels that feeling of self-hatred tear through him, then turns away and turns on the shower.


End file.
